Part 15: New England
42 Days: The Great American Road Trip
July 28, 2003
The morning after Fenway felt like turning a page in our journey. Clean and refreshed, we pointed the car north toward Maine, leaving behind Boston’s brick and bustle for what promised to be a different kind of New England experience entirely. The coastal route unfolded before us like a travel magazine come to life - the kind of scenery that makes you understand why artists and writers have been drawn to these shores for centuries.
Route 1 hugged the coastline, offering glimpses of the Atlantic through gaps in the trees. Small fishing towns appeared and disappeared like scenes from a movie - weathered shingle houses, lobster traps stacked in yards, boats bobbing in protected harbors. The Maine coast has a particular character that sets it apart from its southern neighbors. Where Cape Cod is all manicured beaches and ice cream stands, coastal Maine feels more rugged, more authentic, as if it’s still primarily a working coast that happens to welcome tourists, rather than the other way around.
Driving these roads, Frost’s poetry took on new meaning. His words about stone walls and birch trees weren’t just literary devices anymore - they were right here, living and breathing in the landscape around us. The way morning fog clung to the pines, how ancient granite broke through soil in defiant angles, the particular shade of gray in a weathered barn - these weren’t just scenes he described, they were essential truths about this corner of America that he had captured in verse. The road less traveled suddenly felt very real, and very present.
Traffic ebbed and flowed like the tide, until it didn’t flow at all. Somewhere north of Portland, our progress ground to a complete halt. The kind of traffic jam where you start to wonder if everyone ahead has simply decided to live on the highway now. Jack remained behind the wheel, ready for any hint of movement, while Mike and I did what any sensible baseball fans would do - we got out and started playing catch.
Walking alongside the stopped cars, tossing the baseball back and forth, we were living in that peculiar bubble that forms during extended traffic jams, when the normal rules of highway behavior temporarily suspend. Other drivers watched our impromptu game with a mix of amusement and envy. Then the traffic started to creep forward, barely faster than walking pace, but enough to add an element of challenge to our game.
The state trooper’s arrival was inevitable in retrospect. His thick New England accent turned “Park it!” into “PAK IT!” - a phrase that would become part of our trip’s lexicon, added to the growing collection of inside jokes and memorable moments. His stern warning came with just enough of an eye roll to suggest he’d seen worse from summer tourists. It was our only brush with law enforcement while actually driving - though there were other encounters better left for different stories.
As we pushed further north, the landscape began to change. The coastline became more dramatic, the forests thicker, the towns smaller and further apart. Acadia National Park announced itself gradually - first in road signs, then in glimpses of mountains rising from the sea, finally in the full panorama of Mount Desert Island emerging from the late afternoon haze.
The Pacific Northwest compared to Maine felt like different planets sharing the same ocean. Where Maine’s coast was a patchwork of colonial towns and fishing villages pressed close to the water’s edge, the Pacific Northwest stretched wild and untamed. The Oregon and Washington shores kept humans at a distance, their dramatic cliffs and massive sea stacks standing like ancient guardians against development.
New England’s beaches were mostly accessible, dotted with harbors and stone jetties, the waterfront real estate clearly prized and claimed centuries ago. But the Pacific coast felt defiant of human settlement - massive headlands and towering cliffs interrupted any thoughts of continuous coastal roads or housing developments. The beaches in Oregon and Washington often required hiking down to reach them, and when you got there, they stretched for miles in magnificent isolation.
The very texture of the coastlines differed. Maine’s rocky shores were worn smooth by millennia, its granite rounded and familiar. The Pacific Northwest’s rocks were more dramatic - raw, jagged formations thrust up from the sea, often shrouded in mist like something from a fantasy novel. The sea stacks - those massive stone pillars rising from the surf - had no real equivalent on the Atlantic side.
Even the forests told different stories. New England’s coastal woods were largely deciduous, creating a sense of civilization gradually giving way to nature. The Pacific Northwest’s forests marched right up to the ocean’s edge, massive evergreens standing sentinel on clifftops, their branches shaped by constant wind into natural bonsai forms. These were the kinds of trees that made you feel small, ancient giants that had been there long before any roads or towns existed.
The weather played its part too. Maine’s summer sun felt closer somehow, more personal, creating that perfect New England beach day atmosphere. The Pacific coast, even in summer, kept its moody character - fog rolling in without warning, the constant possibility of rain giving everything a mysterious, primeval quality. The Oregon and Washington coast seemed to say “Yes, you can visit, but don’t expect us to make it easy.” Maine’s coast felt more like an old friend saying “Pull up a chair, stay awhile.”
Both were beautiful, but in fundamentally different ways - like comparing a well-loved family lake house to an unexplored wilderness. The East Coast had been shaped by generations of human habitation, while the West Coast still felt like it was calling the shots, reminding visitors that nature was still very much in charge.
We arrived with just enough daylight to make camp, the setting sun painting the sky in colors that seemed specifically designed for national parks. Our campsite, carved out of the thick Maine woods, became command central as we raced against the dying light. Setting up tents in the gloaming had become a well-practiced routine by this point in the trip, each of us falling into our roles without discussion.
The BBQ ritual commenced as darkness settled in. Our road trip meals had evolved into an art form, particularly the camp dinners. There’s something primally satisfying about cooking over an open fire, especially after a long day on the road. The pork chops that night were a testament to this - seasoned simply, cooked over wood and charcoal, tasting better than any restaurant meal could have managed. The combination of fresh air, hunger earned through travel, and the ancient comfort of fire-cooked food created something magical.
Acadia spread out around us in the darkness, its presence felt more than seen. The park is unique in the national system - the first national park east of the Mississippi, and one born from private citizens donating their land to preserve it for future generations. It’s where the mountains meet the sea in the most literal sense, with peaks rising directly from the Atlantic Ocean. The air carried a mix of pine and salt that you only get in places like this, where forest and ocean collide.
In the gathering dark, we could hear the distant sound of waves meeting rocky shores. Acadia is a park of contrasts - rounded mountains shaped by ancient glaciers, rocky beaches, pristine lakes, and dense forests all packed into a relatively small area. The next day would reveal its full glory, but for now, we had our fire, our drinks, and the comfortable weight of another day’s adventures settling around us like a blanket.
The conversation flowed as easily as the drinks, our voices joining the chorus of camping neighbors and nocturnal creatures. We talked about everything and nothing - replaying the moments from New York, laughing again at the trooper’s accent, planning the next day’s exploration. The alcohol helped smooth the edges of the long drive, transforming road fatigue into comfortable weariness.
As the fire died down to embers, the stars emerged in force. Away from city lights, the Maine sky revealed itself in all its glory. The Milky Way stretched across the darkness like a river of light, making our earlier traffic jam feel like it happened in a different lifetime. One by one, we drifted off to sleep, lulled by the combination of good food, drink, and the soft sounds of the forest at night.
Camping has a way of connecting you to a place that hotels can’t match. There’s an intimacy to sleeping on the ground, separated from the elements by just a thin layer of nylon, that makes you feel part of the landscape rather than just a visitor passing through. That night, our dreams mingled with the sounds of wind in the trees and distant waves, our temporary home in Acadia becoming another waypoint in our expanding map of memories.
Each stop on this journey had its own character, its own rhythm. Fenway had been all urban energy and baseball history. The Maine coast had shown us a different pace, a different way of measuring time. And now Acadia promised yet another perspective - a reminder that beyond the highways and cities, beyond the ballparks and traffic jams, there’s still wilderness to be found, still places where the natural world holds sway.
July 29, 2003
The morning brought laughter at my expense - apparently I’d mastered the art of falling asleep mid-sentence, a talent that would become part of the trip’s folklore. After breaking down camp and leaving our temporary home in Acadia, we pointed the car northwest toward Montreal, not knowing we were about to witness one of baseball’s endangered species in its natural habitat.
continue with Part16: Canada, 42 Days The Great American Road Trip